


Shooting Stars

by Smokemycancer



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smokemycancer/pseuds/Smokemycancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The roof was a safe bet for now. He could just be here. Could just fucking be. Gallavich Ian/Mick. Aftermath of episode 3.6 from Mickey's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

The shower ran cold after he'd finished with it. Now the water was just background noise to muffle what was actually going on. Sitting on a the edge of his tub, lit cigarette dangling between his knees, Mickey let go. He cried. For while. For until his face hurt and he'd given himself a headache. And when the crying stopped, he smoked down his cigarette, shut off the shower, and left his house with a single outfit and few items in his pockets. What he should have done was pack a bag. But Mickey wanted to leave while Terry was in the basement. Escape would be easier this way and so would hiding. Hiding like the coward that Mickey felt.

He reached the abandoned rooftop that he and Ian frequented. The watch he'd slapped on before leaving, well, turned out that the battery was dead. However, judging by the darkened sky, Mickey wagered the time being around ten or so. Not quite midnight because it hadn't been that long since he left his broken home.

Smoked yet another cigarette, Mickey fired off his gun at nothing in particular. It felt good to pull the trigger. To think of what he wished he was shooting. Who he wished he was shooting. To feel the kickback. After he'd wasted off his first clip, Mickey lit a joint and found himself crying again. This time the tears were quick and faint. Stubbed out by his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Thank fuck no one was around to see his breakdown. He was supposed to have been fucked straight. Crying would just nullify that claim.

And he couldn't have that. Terry would end him. Would kill Ian too. So Mickey, he had to be straight in front of his old man. Had to be straight if he was anywhere Terry had eyes and ears. Not like he hadn't been faking it before. But now things were different because now Terry knew and he couldn't, wouldn't, un-know it. That his son was an "aids monkey," "ass digging," faggat.

But the roof was a safe bet for now. He could just be here. Could just fucking be.

When and If Mickey chose to go home, he had no idea how to face his new reality. So long as he stayed on the roof, though, Terry could search to his heart's desire. The sick fuck had no idea where this place was. None. And Mickey could cope. Then he'd be all right to climb down and do what he had to.

Literally the only reason Mickey figured he was going to leave this roof before he was damn well ready,was to spy on Ian Gallagher. To tell someone. Anyone. To watch Ian's fucking back. Because right now, Mickey wasn't in any shape to.

Two more rounds went off, chipping the rubble away even worse. Mickey squinted his eye and tried to improve his aim enough to hit some of the marks Ian had placed up around the doorway. He missed most of them. His nerves were a wreck; what did he expect? Frustrated, Mickey kept on firing the clip, growling, face turning red and tears building up in his eyes again. He called out when the gun ran empty, threw the weapon down and weaved his fingers in his hair. Mickey pulled until he felt pieces rip out. Squatted down to his knees and cried some more. Screamed all hell into the night. Face burning, throbbing, ribs aching, chest about to burst, throat closed up and raw.

Mickey felt fucking filthy like he never had before. Quite frankly, he was sickened with himself. Wrong. He just felt absolutely wrong. His skin burned. He wanted to shave it off. Wanted to stick the gun in his ear and shut off the memories. Of his father. Of Ian. Of that fucking prostitute. Really she had just been doing her job, afraid for her own life. She wasn't to blame. Yet Mickey hated her still. Hated everyone. And especially hated himself. Because he should have! He should have stopped it. Should have threw the bitch off of him and let himself be shot dead before giving into that sick scenario. But then, he had no desire to die. No desire to see Ian killed either.

And Mickey hated remembering how helpless he felt. How scared. He'd wanted to shut his eyes and forget what was happening when he'd looked at Ian Gallagher. Ian seized up and biting his fist through tears. Ian who, only hours beforethat, had had this look his brown eyes. This fucking look. Like he loved Mickey. And Mickey had fucking liked it, that look. Previously having been terrified to even consider Ian more than his fuck-buddy, Mickey had found himself overcome with acceptance in the face of Ian. He hadn't said shit about what he was feeling at the time. Thought he might save that for after fooling around. Before Ian left. So he'd gone to his room and gotten a toy because he'd watched a porn clip of anal beads once. They looked fun. And Mickey wouldn't have minded Ian having him in that position. Because Mickey trusted Ian.

Fuck it. Trust. To someone like Mickey, trust meant more than love probably ever could. Same went for Ian, Mickey figured. And even when Ian shot down the idea of that giant rosary. Even then Mickey didn't lose that warmth in his chest. It was new and he'd liked it. Fucking loved it. He'd swore to himself then that he wouldn't fuck them up again. Would gain back Ian's trust.

Just look. So fucking much for that. He only hoped Ian understood fully what had gone down. Mickey wished he had said what he'd been feeling before shit hit the fan. Then Ian would know. And Mickey. At least then he would have one less worry on his mind.

Mickey fell flat on his back, tears trickling over his cheeks and onto the rooftop. He felt wetness pool around his ears. And just laid there, staring at the stars. Palms flat, he felt around for the gun again and held it against his chest. Eyes never blinking. Mickey wanted the burn of not blinking to rip away through his skull and eat at the thoughts plaguing him. He bit down on his tongue and thought maybe he should bite it off and bleed out up here. Because of what he'd said to Ian after he shot a load in the Russian whore. What he'd said to appease his father and make Ian run for safety.

God damn it. He hoped Ian understood. Fear crippled Mickey. What if Ian didn't? No. Mickey refused to think that. It hurt too much.

Reaching up with the occupied hand on his chest, Mickey rubbed gently at his beaten face. It pained him to touch it. But he just wanted to check and see that the butterfly tape he'd slapped on in his bathroom was still in place. A bastardized first aid method at that. But the tape was in fact holding. Satisfied, Mickey dropped his arm back down and fell asleep.

He dreamed of shooting stars.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please just shut up,” Mickey shot out. His face still bleak. His voice wet sounding. Thankfully he had exhausted all of his tears. He couldn’t let Ian see him crying again.

Mickey woke up to the hot sun beating down on him. Immediately he regretted not having crawled up under something. But he’d been too physically and emotionally worn out to do much besides pass out on the middle of the rooftop. He sat up slowly and let his brain wake up. Looked down at his aching hand. The joints were stiff because he’d slept gripping his gun. Setting it on the ground beside him, Mickey opened and closed his fist a few times, until he could feel it. Then touched his sore face. 

His father had done damage. But fortunately nothing felt broken. He had a busted mouth. Busted brows. Two black eyes and cruised up cheeks. But shit could have been worse. 

Sighing, Mickey let his hand drop back into his lap. Sat there staring at his open, sweaty palm. All of his skin was slick from the summer heat. Night had cooled down, but this morning was especially humid. Mickey needed another shower. Maybe infinite showers. He thought he might never feel clean again. 

Besides feeling dirty, Mickey was numb. Last night he’d woken up from dreaming pleasantly, only to fall back asleep to nightmares. And now, as he sat here, he felt even more dead inside. To think he’d thought last night he hit bottom. Oh no. Today was worse. Today he had to face sunlight and harsh truth. Had to come to terms with everything that happened to him. 

Pulling his knees up,Mickey hugged his legs close to himself and rested his solemn face against his grey pants. The cloth smelled like his house and it made his stomach turn. So Mickey held his breath until his brain felt dizzy, then he exhaled fast and loud. Kept his head down, though, because he was too fucking wrecked to find enough strength in looking up again. So he settled for letting nausea take him. And finally he quickly twisted his body to the side and vomited up all that was left in his stomach. Puked until dry heaving. Eyes watering, Mickey sat back upright and wiped his mouth, staring into space.

Would he ever feel the same as he had before yesterday morning? Would he?

Mickey thought no. He was a different person now and he hated his father for doing this to him. 

His stomach both growled at being empty and churned again at the thought of feeding himself. Maybe he’d just let himself starve. 

Sniffing away his now runny nose, Mickey decided he couldn’t let himself die up here. Hiding like a little bitch was one thing, pussying out on life was entirely different. He wouldn’t dare. 

Slowly, Mickey climbed to his feet and dusted off his pants. He reached into his pockets and found the pack of crackers he’d taken with him from home. Scarfing down two of them, Mickey decided to save the rest for later. He’d eaten a little but was already about to throw up again. Throwing the packet on the ground near his gun, Mickey stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked out over the side of the roof. Let his mind wonder.

Mickey hoped that Ian was at that group home eating mush and breathing. Terry hadn’t seemed like he was going to beat the boy into oblivion anymore. In fact, remembering back on the tragic aftermath, now more collected, Mickey could picture his father’s face perfectly. And he recalled the strange look on Terry’s face when he kicked the prostitute and nearly naked, shaking, Ian Gallagher out of his house. Was the look remorse? Doubtful. But then again, Mickey hoped that his piece of shit parent knew how sick what he’d done was. Saw how much of a monster he’d become. Who could do this to their own flesh and blood? In what fucking reality was any of this okay?

Mouth quivering in rage, Mickey pulled a hand out of his pocket and rubbed his temples. Let tears escape him again. Like rain, the droplets fell between his face and hand, hitting the toes of his shoes.

Two hours later, Mickey Milkovich had smoked all of his cigarettes, had contemplated going to the police, and was now firing off the last of his bullets. He stopped shooting when he heard the door to the roof creak open. Eyes turning into saucers, Mickey went rigid, gun aimed at the invader’s head, right between the eyes. He almost got trigger happy before examining who the fuck he was staring back at. Thank fuck he hadn’t. Breathing, Mickey lowered his gun and cast his eyes down from Ian Gallagher. 

“Hey, Mickey,” Ian’s strained voice vibrated in Mickey’s ears.

Mickey almost puked again. Instead, he gripped his gun tighter and gritted his teeth. Swallowed his breakfast.

He couldn’t even look at It. Ian, whose sliced cheek had miraculously not bruised up near as bad as Mickey’s battered face. And for that, Mickey felt grateful. Relief and a strange sense of pride washed over Mickey for having jumped on his father’s back. For having turned the attention away from Ian.

“What are you doing here?” Mickey croaked, staring at the gun in his hand. 

“I,” Ian trailed and Mickey heard him take a steadying breath, “I needed to see you. Did you sleep here?” Ian’s voice was heavy with a mix of pity and something else Mickey couldn’t place.

Nodding, Mickey spat on the ground beside his show. Lifted his head and frowned off at the target he’d fixed this morning. “I did,” Mickey said, tight. “And I’m alive. Unfortunately,” he added, raising both brows. Only half joking. Probably that one expression was the most emotion besides despair that Mickey had allowed for yet.

From the corner of his eye, Mickey caught Ian’s wince. 

Ian took a pause and openly strengthened his resolve. “You need anything?” Ian asked Mickey, thankfully letting well enough alone for now.

That was always one the aspect Mickey liked best about Ian. Press some issues though he might, in the end Ian always knew when to let Mickey alone.

“Nah, man,” Mickey breathed. “Unless you got a time-machine in your pocket,” he said.

Ian grunted, understanding. He rubbed his wrist while Mickey lifted his gun up and starting shooting off the last clip slowly. Pulled an aggravated face. “So,” Ian began with a huff, “are you just…what are you going to do, Mickey. I need to know.”

Mickey just kept on shooting. What was he going to do? Going to the police was out of the question once Mickey ran over that scenario in his head. Terry would off Mickey or Ian one for sure if one of them tried that. It’s not like getting arrested for something like this happened over night. No. The fuck head police would just investigate. And meanwhile, Terry would hunt down the boys and slaughter them both. Or have Tommy do it. Though Mickey had a sneaking suspicion that his uncle might possibly wind up turning the gun on Terry. Those two had plenty of history over drugs, money, and women. Only recently had they made up. But Tommy was still sore. Tommy would be easy to win over. After Mickey’s mother bit the bullet, something changed in his uncle. Something that might work in Mickey’s favor is he approach the situation properly.

Which lead Mickey to his Plan B. 

He steeled himself and popped off another cap.

Ian sighed, exasperated. “Mick, fucking talk to me,” he pleaded. “Say something! I don’t care what,” he demanded. “Tell me again that I make you sick. That she was the best lay you’ve had,” Ian chuckled out bitterly. “Anything but this quiet act. I can’t do this if you—”

“Please just shut up,” Mickey shot out. His face still bleak. His voice wet sounding. Thankfully he had exhausted all of his tears. He couldn’t let Ian see him crying again. The once was enough. At a time like this, feeling sorry for himself needed to be kept in private. Mickey didn’t want Ian to see what this had actually done to him. Not right now. Ian had seen enough; had been hurt enough. “You don’t need this,” Mickey said, heart cracking in half. “Please for the love of Christ, Gallagher,” Mickey went on, he shot another bullet, arm outstretched, “get away from me. Don’t put yourself through this.” He swallowed his throat. Shook his head and fired again. “You’ve got enough to fucking deal with. Leave this out. Just walk away,” he said. “Forget everything and walk away from me in one piece.”

Ian made two fists, growled out, and held his face with white knuckles. “Fuck you!” Ian bitched. “No! I’m in this, Mickey,” he barked.

Mickey’s heart jumped. His eyes widened quick, then he shut them and sucked on his lips, face pained. Ian’s words were so final. So honest and raw. Why? Why would Ian do this to himself? Fucking hell. If Mickey were in his shoes, he would bolt. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Who was to say. But that was scaring shit what Ian witnessed. What they were party to. Mickey wished he could erase everything. Would have let Ian leave for work. He swallowed and looked up at the sky. “Why the hell,” Mickey breathed, bare audible but sounding calm, “am I like this?” He was talking to himself. He knew Ian was listening though. Shaking his head again, Mickey shut his eyes and let the sun burn away at his cut face. What he’d meant was why is he so selfish. What he should do is fire a bullet at Ian’s toes until the beautiful soul ran away into the arms of his family. People who could at least try to give Ian Gallagher what he needed. People who weren’t this fucked up. 

“I love you,” Ian said, stern. “I’m crazy for it. But I do. So screw you. No. I’m staying,” he said, featured turning to stone determination. “Put one in my chest if you want me gone so badly,” Ian finished, rubbing his mouth. A habit mickey suspected Ian had picked up because of Mickey.

Shaking, Mickey lowered his gun and turned his stunned expression to Ian’s attention. For the first time yet, Mickey let himself take in Ian’s appearance. He turned to face Ian. Vocabulary running dry, Mickey just kept on holding Ian’s burning gaze. He lifted one hand and held the top of head in order to steady himself. Mickey thought he might tip over if he didn’t. And just kept looking into the eyes of kindness until he broke apart completely. Love. Ian apparently love him. Despite everything. Those were fighting words.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No!" Mickey flared, whirling around fast, eyes mad and frantic. "Don't bring my sister in this, Gallagher! Where's your fucking head at?" he gawked.

Mickey stared at Ian until his heart stopped beating wildly. Then he let go of his head and stuffed his now empty gun down the front of his pants. Took a breather. When he looked back at Ian, the ginger was pulling out a pack of smokes from his pocket. Ian took a few steps closer and offered one to Mickey. Taking the offered cigarette, Mickey puffed while Ian lit. He tilted his head and back as he exhaled. Let the nicotine roll over him. Licking his lip, Mickey met Ian's watchful eyes yet again.

No doubt Ian wanted more of a reaction out of Mickey over what had just been said. But unfortunately, Mickey wasn't planning on saying those three words back. Did he love Ian Gallagher? How the fuck should he know. For sure Mickey knew that he cared for Ian. In the eighteen months that the two had been in this on again off again flig, Mickey had been around for only eight of them. The rest of his time had been spent in lock up. However, during those eight months, Mickey found that he enjoyed Ian's company. He considered Ian his best friend at this point. His only real friend, if nothing else. Mickey found that he was jealous. Sure, he prodded Ian about fucking guys in that group home. Because he didn't want him to and had wanted to know if Ian had, without letting his motive slip. Also, he trusted Ian; which spoke volumes because Mickey Milkovich didn't trust just any fucker. Actually, Mickey didn't trust anyone he could rattle off. Except Ian. Fuck, Mickey was even afraid to come out to his own sister, and they were the closest of the Milkovich siblings.

And as his hazy brain had wandered off during last night, Mickey recalled thinking about what his feelings meant. Had pondered on that warmth in his guts back at house. Back before this.

He trusted Ian. And he genuinely care about Ian's well being. Enough to take Ian's side and almost get himself beaten into coma. Though in the end that hadn't helped matters. Still. Mickey never thought he would see the day that he stood up for someone who wasn't family. But someone who, to Mickey, maybe meant more than his piece of shit relatives.

_"Get the fuck off of him!"_

His own words ringing in his ears as he sucked down smoke, Mickey looked over Ian's cheek. All he'd been thinking when Mickey threw himself at his father was Ian. Saving  _Ian_. Not even considering himself. And when he'd been sitting on the couch, barely able to think straight, all his muddled thoughts had been full of regret. Regret for not having told Ian that he liked the guy. A lot. More than he probably should. He'd almost broken down and admitted it right then and there, in front of his father. Because he'd been sure that this Russian was someone with dismemberment tools and a body bag.

Mickey wondered again what the hell this actually meant for him, and if this was love. Not possible. Mickey chewed his tongue at the thought. Ian and he hadn't even been together long enough to call what they were love. Until extremely recently, the two hadn't even shared a kiss. Then again, how exactly does one define love and the time frame that ought it ought to take place in? Mickey supposed no one could. Are there rules for love? If so, do those rules apply to everyone? If the answer to all of Mickey's still unanswered questions was no, then maybe, just maybe he did love Ian Gallagher back. Truth was, he'd never felt this way, love or not, for anyone until now.

Mickey knitted his brow. He caught the sudden concern pinch Ian's face. Ignored that for now. He took another drag and looked back at the target he'd shot up. Afraid that maybe what he was thinking was written all over his face. Ian could take Mickey's expression one of two ways: either Mickey didn't feel the same way or Mickey was scared.

For sure it was the later. That and a slight amount of uncertainty. But Mickey didn't want Ian getting the wrong idea. Mickey didn't want to hurt this boy anymore than he already had. Couldn't take the thought of seeing pain on Ian's face again. Fuck. That had been so hard to bare. Had actually been impossible. Thus why he flipped that woman over and turned his back to Ian.

Mickey's skin broke out in cold sweat at the memory. His stomach lurched. He swallowed down an ungodly panic. Unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Blinking fast to clear away this new feeling, Mickey took deep breaths. Tried to keep his face the same, not give away how skittish he now was. Mickey Milkovich was not some god damned pansy who felt shit like this. He just wasn't. Wasn't supposed to be fragile.

Birds chirped and Mickey wished they would fall from the phone lines and die. His head was pounding. He wanted all outside joy to fuck off. He took his last drag and let the butt burn his fingers. Focused on that pain, then flicked the butt out of sight. Eyes still trained in the distance.

"Shit," Ian breathed, tone deep and apologetic. Breaking the tense silence. "Look," he started, "you don't have to say that back. I don't…" he trailed.

Furrowing his face, Mickey turned his head back at Ian. Watched Ian rub his hands over his face, almost burning what bit of hair he had off with his cigarette. Ian always did smoke too slowly. When Ian pulled his hands away, there was that look again. That pained expression. Mickey wanted to puke. He dropped his mouth open, not the foggiest idea how to respond to any of this. He didn't know how to make himself feel better, much less Ian.

"I shouldn't have said that," Ian said, gnawing his lip and nodding firmly.

Mickey had to hand it to Ian, he'd grown the fuck up. Talk about endearing. Mickey could remember that petrified, yet determined kid who waltzed into Mickey's room with a crowbar. That kid who used to get this butthurt expression on his face. That little fucker who wore his heart on his sleeve. Mickey guessed life had killed that innocence for Ian Gallagher. Which was both sad and wonderful at the same time. Because Mickey liked tough skin. Change in attitude looked great on Ian. Being a tough guy suited him. But Mickey just hated that Ian had to face so much shit to get like this. Shit that was unnecessary. This new resolve of Ian's could have been attained in so many other ways.

Mickey thumbed his busted lip and frowned. He pushed his brows together and twisted his lips in deep thought. Skewered up his hands. Than pushed down his nervous stomach. As fucked up as he felt right now, Mickey knew Ian wasn't in much better shape. Both of them had been emotionally wounded by what Terry Milkovich pulled. In different ways, yes. But neither one was okay. And Mickey sure as shit wasn't going to make this worse by pushing at Ian's buttons. However, they did need to get a few details straight. And he'd get to sharing that soon. In fact, right now.

"Ian," Mickey started in, more of a mumbled. He cleared his throat and reached up, made to touch the other boy's elbow. But dropped his hand because of that weird panic he was getting again.

Ian shook his head and gave a weak, forgiving laugh. He held his hands up and grinned at Mickey softly. "I mean it," Ian said, genuine. "I'm sorry. You have enough on your mind. I don't want to make this somehow worse," he said, calm and thoughtful. "Jesus, Mickey," he apologized, "I'm just sorry, all right. I'm sorry. For everything. All of this is my fault. I'm so sorry. Really."

Mickey knitted his brow again and pursed his lips furiously at Ian. Forgetting completely what he'd been about to say before Ian interrupted. Before he could think it through, Mickey shoved Ian back abruptly. "You're fucking stupid and dense!" Mickey hissed. "You ain't got anything to be sorry for!" he yelled, chest welling up as he screamed in Ian's stunned face. "We don't have anything to be ashamed of! You were fucking right! Okay?" he yelled, waving his hand about in affirmation. And when Ian just stood there petrified before him, Mickey bared his teeth and pointed in Ian's face. So close he smell Ian's breakfast. "I said, okay?" he lashed out, demanding, authoritative. "Tell me we're okay, Ian, god damn it!" his voice broke. And in that instant, Mickey widened his eyes and shut his fucking trap. Stunned at himself and this burst of emotion, Mickey whirled away and cupped his face. Stared out, freaked, over his fingertips. He blinked and coughed out a weak, surprised laugh. "Damn it," he yelled, tone falsely humored. "What the fuck," he said, said so forceful that he broke out in chills. What the fuck, indeed. What was that? Why had he just acted liked that? Being forced to have sex with that woman, being attacked by his own father, in front of someone Mickey cared about; that shit had fucked with him. His mind was fucking warped now. That much was obvious. Heaviness broke through Mickey's chest, spread over his entire being. He might have fallen on his ass if not for Ian's hand dropping on his shoulder.

Letting go of his face, Mickey stayed staring ahead.

"I think I made my stance clear," Ian stated firmly, reassuring. He sounded like he was crying and Mickey refused to turn around and see that, lest he break down again himself.

A strong need to pull away from the touch went through Mickey and he couldn't fight it. Slowly, so as not to freak Ian out, Mickey stepped forward and rubbed his shoulder. When he let himself go, Mickey still remained with his back turned. All of this shit was just too much. Thankfully, it appeared as though Ian grasped the gravity of what Mickey was about right now. Knew to leave this conversation for another day. One when Mickey was, well, Mickey again. If that ever actually happened. Mickey had his doubts.

"So," Ian began, coughing shyly, "do you need anything?" He repeated his earlier question. "Food? Smokes? A blanket or something?" he asked.

Mickey set his mouth and tried to clear his swimming head. He crossed his arms. "Pack of Marlboro Reds," he requested. "Some sunscreen," he sniffed, gaining back his composer, then asked, "But I thought you were working today?"

"That'll have to wait. I already talked to Linda. I have a lot stuff to do," Ian told him. Ian kicked at a piece of busted concrete and Mickey looked down at the rubble as it rolled past him. "Turns out Frank is our anonymous caller," Ian said. Hate seething in his words. But he was holding back. Mickey could tell Ian was being real when he said he wasn't going to add more shit on Mickey buffet of shit. Another thing Mickey really liked about this guy: they had a lot in common. Ian might have been raised different, but he knew burdens and troubles. Knew how and when to let well enough alone. When to share and when to shut up. When to fight and when to stand down.

And there it was. Deep in Mickey's gut. Faint but still burning. That warmth. For the first time since before Terry barged in, Mickey's mouth turned up at the edge. Not a full blown smile. It was weak. Torn. But it was there.

"Frank huh?" Mickey chirped, hugging himself tighter. Fingers bunched up in his sleeveless hoodie. "Bet you wish I'd have killed him now," he half-hearted joked. Tried to make light.

The effort must have worked. Ian snorted. "Maybe a little," he said. But the remark that Mickey knew lingered in the air was really, Mickey should have just done bother their fathers in. After a brief silence, Ian said, "I'll call Mandy. She can bring—"

"No!" Mickey flared, whirling around fast, eyes mad and frantic. "Don't bring my sister in this, Gallagher! Where's your fucking head at?" he gawked.

Ian's eyes widened. He snapped his mouth shut. "Sorry," he blurted. And then the oddest expression flushed across his Irish fucking face. Slowly, Mickey saw Ian scrunch his face then smooth his features to enlightenment. Could practically see a bulb go off behind Ian's eyes. The Gallagher son then looked at Mickey so serious that it was little scary. Yet Ian had this eerie calm about him. Quietly he said, "Mickey, I think there's something you should know."

Guts turning, Mickey balled up his fists. More shit was going be thrown on him despite Ian's earlier remark. Mickey could just tell. He readied himself. Ian wouldn't push more on Mickey unless this was important. "What?" Mickey demanded, impatient.

Ian blinked. Second guessed himself. He hummed regretfully. Obviously he wanted to stuff his words back down his throat. "Just…you two should talk," Ian said. And when Mickey scowled and shook his head, waved his arms in defiance and revolt, Ian did something maybe he shouldn't have. He reached out and grabbed Mickey's flailing wrist. "I'm serious," Ian said fast and let go now that the ball was in his court. "Damn," he scratched his cut and groaned, "Now I really wish I hadn't brought this up. My mistake," he continued, "but just, talk to her, okay."

"Why the fuck," Mickey snorted. "Fuck no, Ian. No!" he bunched up his face in a mix of pain and disagreement. He didn't want anyone else knowing this shit. And so he told that to Ian.

"Just hold up," Ian said, grave, eyes looking into Mickey's, "Mick, I think you need to know."

"Know what?" Mickey hissed. "Why can't you just fucking tell me?" he snapped, spit flying, face wide and concerned.

Ian shook his head. "It's not my business to spread," Ian said. "I shouldn't have even said anything," he sighed, rubbing his neck. He exhaled loudly and grinned reassuringly at Mickey. "I have to go," Ian said backing away before Mickey took a swing. "Fair warning," he called out, "I'm sending Mandy up. Be here when she comes."

Exasperated, Mickey threw up his sore arms. "Where the fuck else am I going?" he yelled after Ian. "Hey!" he yelled just as Ian slipped by the door. He waited to see if Ian emerged again. When the other boy peeked his head back out, Mickey bit the inside of his cheek and said, dawdling, "Be careful."

"I'll be fine," Ian said, "Lip's with me. Worry about yourself. Keep your gun loaded."

Mickey glanced over at the target, then back at Ian. "I'm out of bullets!" he said.

"I'll send some with Mandy!"

The sound of the roof door slamming was the most deafening sound. So permanent even though it wasn't. Mickey stood in wait. Dread crept up on him. Overwhelming.


	4. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In some fucked up way, this confession felt good, being able to speak freely with his sister.

Mandy showed up toward the evening. Apparently Ian was trying to keep her from freaking out and must have lied about why Mickey was on the rooftop for the night. Because Ian, true to his word, never shared someone else’s business. Although within seconds of his sister showing up, Mickey wished Ian would have spilled the beans. After all, this was Ian’s business too.

Mandy took one look at Mickey’s face, dropped his shit on the ground, and put her hands on her hips as she marched forward. “What the actual fuck, Mickey?” Mandy scowled, bitchy as she approached him. She stepped up, nose to nose. “Who did you have it out with? Are you hiding from the cops?” she accused.

Normally, she might have been right.  
  
And for a split second, Mickey debated on telling Mandy that she was. His hiding from the police was believable after all. Then he remembered Ian’s words. How deathly serious Ian had seemed when he pressed the issue of Mickey talking to Mandy for real. And wanting to know the secret Mandy must hold aside, Mickey kind of figured he might as well tell Mandy first. Before his fucking dad spouted off, should Mandy mention bringing Ian or Lip around the house. The last thing Mickey wanted was his father filling Mandy’s ears with homophobic bullshit about Ian Gallagher.   
  
“Well?” Mandy snapped, reached out and shoved Mickey’s shoulder.  
  
Eyes wide, Mickey brushed her off. That panic going through him all over again. Jesus Christ he was a fucking scaredy cat now. Over nothing! This was was terrible. Damn Terry Milkovich to hell.  
  
Mandy looked put off and confused. “What’s your damage?” Mandy asked, softened up only slightly. More offended than anything, really. Bitch that his sister was. True Milkovich through and through.   
  
Mickey hated that fact suddenly. Wished they weren’t this way. “Just lay off,” Mickey snapped. No way was he letting himself be weird around Mandy. With Ian things were different because Ian had seen everything. Ian saw the real Mickey like no one else had. Frowning down at his stuff near the door, Mickey walked over. He could hear Mandy exhaling in annoyance. Blowing her sweaty bangs about. For now, he sighed, bent down and shifted through the stolen Red Sox duffle bag Mandy had brought him. Inside was a change of clothes, a sleeping bag, bullets, random foods, and the cigarettes he had asked for. No sunscreen.   
  
“Where’s the damn sunscreen at?” Mickey asked casually, looking back over his shoulder and up at her.  
  
Mandy, arms crossed and hugging her black jacket, shrugged. “Guess I forgot a few things,” she said. “I was in a hurry because I’m supposed to go with Lip to turn in their aunt’s will.”  
  
Knitting his brow, Mickey made a noise in his throat and shoulder the bag. But the action hurt. Hissing through his teeth, he let the heavy bag fall from his shoulder. Eyes tightly shut, Mickey swore at himself. Even though Terry had only beaten Mickey’s face, all of Mickey fighting back strained his whole body.   
  
“You all right?” Mandy asked.  
  
“Yeah,” Mickey coughed out and rolled his shoulder. Then he looked up and met Mandy’s eyes.   
  
 _“I think there’s something you should know.”_  
  
Ian’s voice in his head, Mickey sighed. He looked Mandy over. Aware that his staring was freaking her out. Maybe he had that depressed look on his face again. And she wasn’t used to seeing Mickey as anything but a prick, douchebag brother. He’d seen Mandy upset plenty, but never the other way around. If he actually told her what had happened, Mickey wondered on her reaction. Mandy, she’d always been spared most of Terry’s horrendous behavior because of being a girl and all. She didn’t have some big secret. She wouldn’t understand. And Mickey, he didn’t know if he was ready to share this. If he ever would. He really didn’t want anyone knowing.  
  
Wrapping his arms around himself unconsciously, Mickey kept on studying Mandy.  
  
And then his sister snapped. She cocked and brow and gave Mickey a pointed look. “What the fuck are you looking at?” she asked, puss faced.   
  
Shaking himself, Mickey just breathed and looked away. He sniffed hard and hocked a loogie on the roof. “Ian didn’t tell you nothing?” he pried, risking a glance at his sister.  
  
“Mickey, why are you holding yourself like that?” Mandy asks. And underneath her tough girl facade, Mickey heard his sister’s worry. “It’s weird,” she said. “You’re acting weird.”  
  
Quickly, Mickey released himself. His face heated up at his sister’s remark.   
  
“Ian just told me you got into some trouble and are laying low up here,” Mandy remarked, leaving well enough alone. She shivered in the evening breeze and looked around. “What is this place, anyway?” she asked, curious, kicking at some rubble.  
  
Mickey followed his sister’s gaze to the many empty cases of beer laying around Ian’s target posters. He went back to looking at her while her attention was elsewhere.   
  
 _“It’s not my business to share.”_  
  
Ian wouldn’t have said something like that if whatever was going on didn’t hold some kind of major importance. Something big. Because Ian didn’t hold small secrets. Only the big, nasty ones.   
  
Just talk to her, Ian had asked of Mickey. No, demanded.   
  
“Ian and I come up here a lot,” Mickey said, his voice empty because his mind was elsewhere. Inadvertently, he’s made up his mind. His eyes unfocused but he didn’t bother to fix it right away.  
  
Mandy frowned and turned back to him. “You and Ian?” she asked. “You guys, like, hang out and stuff now?” she pressed on.  
  
“I’m gay,” Mickey blurted, finally righting his vision. Completely unaware of the fear on his face.   
  
Mandy dropped her arms. Her face grew wide. Mouth hanging open. Blinking, she tore her eyes off Mickey and glared at the roof. She croaked out a few started words, but didn’t say anything. Then, after a solid, painful silence, she stared back at him and tilted her head. “With Ian?” Mandy finally asked, then wrinkled her nose and looked off, thoughtful. She stated more than asked, “You’re fucking Ian?” When Mickey didn’t respond, Mandy took it as an opportunity to continue. And also as an obvious yes. Which is it was meant to be. She said, “Okay. Why are you telling me this?”   
  
Honestly, Mickey had ever seen someone look more shocked than his sister currently did. And why wouldn’t she be? Since elementary school, Mickey had been the biggest fag basher in South Side. Thou doth protest too much, one might say.   
  
“Because dad found out,” Mickey said, fear closing up his throat. The feeling of nausea overpowering him. He swallowed down the bile. Rubbed his face and held it for a minute. How the fuck was he going to tell Mandy? Really he ought not. He should leave it at this.   
  
“Holy shit!” Mandy gasped, eyes wide as Mickey stared her down over his fingers. She smiled wide, stunned by not happy. Probably at a loss for how to respond. Just like Mickey was at a loss for how to continue this. “Did he do this to you?” she asked, scrunching her face as she walked up to Mickey.  
  
Mickey waved Mandy back and almost fell over the duffle bag while taking his own step in defense. “He’s sick in the head,” Mickey spit. He looked away. Fury bubbled up in him. “He fucking caught us yesterday,” Mickey admitted. And from there, everything just kind of feel from his mouth. Albeit tight and full of a false tough skinned exterior. But he spilled nonetheless. Never once looking at Mandy’s face. Until he’d finished. Sneering at the memories, Mickey waited for Mandy to be disgusted with him.  
  
Instead, Mandy broke into tears. Way out of character for his sister. She’d cried in front Mickey before, sure. Over guys fucking with her. And she only cried then so Mickey would rough up her victim. He knew her game. But he also Mandy was a chick somewhere deep underneath her Milkovich coating. And obviously she was hurt bad. Because if Mickey knew one thing, he knew his sister wouldn’t let herself show like this to him if she could help it. And he also knew she sure as shit wouldn’t cry over what he’d told her just now. Mandy never cried because of empathy. Only if she was being selfish.  
  
Stunned and wary, Mickey waited for Mandy to gain composure. Thankfully Mandy was a quick crier because she loathed looking weak. Even when she thought no one was looking. Even then Mandy held herself together. This was kind of scary. Seeing this put a whole new perspective on Mickey’s view of hi and his siblings. Like obviously he wasn’t the only one hiding shit everyone.   
  
Sucking in a deep breath, Mandy visible hardened herself again. She met Mickey’s eyes. Her features twisted. Into nostalgia, anger, and sadness. Everything Mickey was feeling himself. And then Mandy laughed bitterly. “Well,” she breathed, “now I know why Ian didn’t just bring you this shit,” she waved at the bag, “himself!”   
  
Whether she meant that she thought Ian didn’t want to be around Mickey now, or if Mandy was picking up on Ian having outed Mandy’s own secret…Mickey couldn’t tell. His sister wasn’t stupid, though. Likely it was the latter.  
  
Awkwardly, Mickey hummed. An odd sense of safety and relief washed over him now that he had told someone. Which made no sense because Mandy sure and hell couldn’t protect Mickey. And yet an immense feeling of shame hit him all at once.   
  
Mandy’s eyes searched Mickey. She held herself again and shivered, hair wiping in the slowly escalating wind. Mandy had always been too thin and cold-blooded. Yet she waltzed around in short-short and mini-skirts like a whore in heat. Yet she was finally wearing pants again. For which Mickey was grateful.   
  
“I’ll never have sex again,” Mickey said, just to fill the quiet. But he was telling the truth. The mere thought of the act freaked him out. All he could feel when he thought of sex was how awful it felt. Getting off when he didn’t want to. It was so fucking awful. Really awful. He’d actually cried for a second, but stopped himself before crawling off of the Russian prostitute and continuing the show for his dad.   
  
In some fucked up way, this confession felt good, being able to speak with his sister freely. They never did that. Not really. One of the was always faking a bitchy attitude, sarcasm, or feigning un-interest. Not to mention Mickey was always hiding himself underneath a bed of lies. Thus half of the shit he said to Mandy wasn’t even honest.   
  
“Yeah you will eventually,” Mandy said, uncomfortable. “Did Ian tell you about last winter?” she asked, eyeballing Mickey hard.  
  
And there. Now the ball was really rolling. Mickey suspicion and curiosity peeked. he narrowed his eyes. “No. Are you going to?” he asked, well aware that both of them knew where this might be going. And all Mickey could think was ‘surely not.’  
  
Mandy looked off and shuffled her feet. “Dad,” she started, her voice hard, “after mom died and he started meth again…” Mandy trailed. Took a deep breath. Then she went on, “Do you remember,” she spared a look at Mickey and the anger in her was so alive it burned, “how black-out trashed he’d get? When he’d like,” she rolled her eyes and chewed her lips, “do strange shit. The time he strung up popcorn all over the house, half naked and blitzed out of his mind? He didn’t remember the next day, you know. And beat you for it,  Made you clean it up before school? Or when dad tore Iggy’s ass a new one and stumbled into his room, accusing Iggy of hiding all his shoes? When really dad burned them himself in the backyard the night before? Along with all the family pictures?”  
  
Mickey furrowed his brow. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I remember. My fucking teacher almost called DFS when I showed up for class with belt marks on my arms,” Mickey remarked. “Dad made me drop out after that.”  
  
Staring at Mickey for a minute, face hard to read, Mandy tugged at her sleeves and wetted her lips. She was nervous. Despite trying to look anything but. “So like,” she breathed, “you guys weren’t the only ones he took stuff out on.”  
  
A cold shot through Mickey. Stuck to his bones. His face bugged. “What the fuck did he do to you?” Mickey practically bellowed, fists balled up. “You tell me right now, Mandy!” Mickey demanded.  
  
Mandy snapped her mouth closed. Frowning she licked her teeth. “I had an abortion while you were in juvie last time,” she said, full of unrivaled rage. “Dad tried to kill Ian over me being knocked up,” she laughed, hateful.  
  
 _“Mandy wasn’t enough for you?”_  
  
In shock, Mickey stared at Mandy, gapingly. He reached up fast and rubbed his lip. Breath come out in a slow shake. In fact, he was shaking all over. Not because he felt sorry himself anymore. No. Now he was beyond embarrassed about his family. Beyond mad. Mickey was fucking murderous. Baring his teeth, Mickey growled, “Yeah and it was fucking dad’s, wasn’t it?”   
  
Mandy nodded, eyes narrow, mouth a grim line.   
  
“What the fuck is wrong with him?” Mickey said. His voice shaky. “I’ll fucking  _kill_ him!” he forced out between his teeth. Seeing red. “Disgusting fucking pig headed bastard!” Mickey barked out. Like and animal, Mickey turned fast and kicked at his duffle bag. Stopping to catch his breath, Mickey stood there breathing. Calming himself slightly. Mandy was staring. But this was the kind of reaction his sister was used to. This rash liveliness, this was Mickey. And he hoped to hold onto his rage, to stay himself a little longer. So that every emotion he’d felt since yesterday would leave him. Even if only temporarily. He held his face and breathed through his mouth heavily. “He raped you,” Mickey coughed out. “His own fucking kid,” he breathed. “Sick. He’s sick,” Mickey said fast, then grabbed his stomach and groaned. teeth bared again. He refused to hurl.   
  
“He raped both of us,” Mandy piped in, stern. Gave Mickey pause.  
  
Eyes widening, Mickey stood up straight slowly. He knitted his brow at his sister. Nostrils flaring. Like they tended to do when he couldn’t get control of himself. “No. I didn’t get fucking raped,” Mickey snapped, serious, yet not raising his voice. He pointed at Mandy. “ _I_  didn’t get raped,” he affirmed.  
  
“Yes you did,” Mandy said, mouth small and hardened.   
  
“Shut up!” Mickey flared. “I gained control of that situation!” he pleaded, trying to convince and reassure himself along with Mandy.   
  
“He might not have crawled on top of you in the dark,” Mandy pressed on still, face quivering, eyes full of madness, “Didn’t cover your mouth and call you sweetheart while he shot a load between your legs, Mickey, but make no mistake. Dad fucking raped you and that woman.” She spit on the ground. As if the words tasted vile. Probably they did. They stung Mickey’s ears. “And he might as well have raped Ian!” Mandy seethed. She huffed. Breathed out puffs of what was probably crying. Holding it in just barely. Mandy shook and smoothed down her hair. She met Mickey’s deadly eyes with her own. “He has to die,” she told him.  
  
And Mickey felt of the gun against his stomach. Relished in the coldness of it pressed there. And knew what he had to do. This shit wasn’t just about him anymore.  
  
Mickey knew what he had to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sorry. I had to write this. That look on Mickey's face, that grimace, is haunting me. I'm so god damned nervous about next week. Ugh.
> 
> If it's OOC at all, oh fucking well. Deal with it. Mickey's probably going to be different ow, guys. I'm not positive, but that's my opinion right now. For now, I'm just going by the vulnerability Mickey was showing during ep 6. From what I know about rape victims (which admittedly isn't a lot), they all react different. But one thing is universal, and that is change. Change in behavior, fears, reaction to sex, opinion of self being degraded.
> 
> God I'm fucking scared of what will happen fuck fuck fuck everything.
> 
> Oh and yeah, I totally used Fiona's trust line in Mickey's thoughts. It just fits what I see everyone looking for so well. Everyone on this show has trust issues.


End file.
